


The Minutes of the Meeting

by gilligankane



Category: Guiding Light
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-24
Updated: 2009-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re sitting on the bench outside the house, just waiting the way you have been for fourteen days and counting, when he comes sulking up the walk, hands shoved so deep in his pockets that his shoulders hunch forward and in and he looks distorted, almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Minutes of the Meeting

_When you finally understand what it meant, the truth will leave your lips. Not as words. But a sound at the back of your throat._

_\- pleasefindthis_

Two weeks after Natalia leaves, Rafe comes home.

You’re sitting on the bench outside the house, just waiting the way you have been for fourteen days and counting, when he comes sulking up the walk, hands shoved so deep in his pockets that his shoulders hunch forward and in and he looks distorted, almost.

“I, uh…” he scrambles to say when he sees you sitting there. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I have nowhere else to go,” you admit in a whisper.

You’re done being strong. You’re done being the backbone, the shoulder to lean on.

You want to break down, and  _dammit_ , you’re going to do it right here on this bench, because it all fell apart here once before and it just seems appropriate.

You’ve always been a fan of irony.

“I’ll, well, I’ll just go, then,” he mumbles, but you’re moving off the bench before he can walk away.

“No, stay. It’s  _your_  house.”

You get a few steps down the walkway before he gives a heavy sigh and calls out to you. “You could,” he tries. “You could stay, too, if you wanted.”

You do.

 _Desperately_.

You settle next to him on the bench and look out into the field you didn’t think you’d miss. He doesn’t say a word and you say even less, trying to breathe as quietly as possible, trying not to break the moment.

He breaks it, five minutes later right as the silence is about to drive you into another bottle.

“You pushed her away,” but his voice is low and not too accusing.

“Maybe,” you admit, because you’ve entertained the idea – given it more thought that you’ll admit; then you  _want_  to admit. Because it scares you, that  _you_  might be the reason she left without a word to you or your daughter or her  _son_.

“Well, how are you going to fix it?” His voice isn’t hard the way you expected it to be; isn’t angry and bitter like you thought. You don’t flinch when he talks.

And you’re make another confession, because even if you’re not religious, he is and that has to count for something. “I’m not going to.”

You gave her two weeks.

You gave her fourteen days to yell  _surprise_  and to show up at your doorstep and tell you that she was called away suddenly and there was just no time to leave a note and to admit it was just a joke and that she’ll never leave again.

You gave her three-hundred and thirty-six hours to get her life together and fix whatever it is she thought was broken.

You gave her twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty-one minutes to think of a way to explain it all to you.

You gave her one million, two hundred and nine thousand, six hundred seconds to come home.

She gave you silence.

“What you do mean you’re not going to?”

You sigh, weary and tired and angry that she left you with your broken heart and your broken daughter and her broken son. “I mean, I’m not going to Rafe. She doesn’t want me to.”

“How do you know that?” He sounds like you imagine Ava would have sounded at thirteen, all moody and confrontational: stuck between being a kid and a teenager; he sounds like how you imagine Emma will sound someday, after she realizes that you aren’t the superhero she thinks you are.

“Because she left,” you say simply. It’s not that complicated after all.

“Guess you love her, huh?” he asks in a snort and you feel, somewhere in the deepest part of your heart, a little spark of resentment flare, but it doesn’t spread throughout your body the way it used to – before she taught you to temper it. It just flashes briefly then dies out like a match. “I guess you  _really_  loved her, didn’t you.”

“Rafe…”

“No. You’re  _giving up_  on her that easy? That’s not love,” he hisses. “That’s, that’s just…”

“I’m just proving you right then,” you continue, your voice heavy with hurt. “You said I was just using her and I’m proving you right, okay? So when she comes back,” you say, not adding the  _if_  that both of you are thinking. “When she comes back, you can tell her you love her without telling her to go to hell, okay?”

He flinches.

“You can call her  _Ma_  without hating her, and you can walk into a room without worrying if she’ll be holding hands with me, and you can even kiss her goodnight without freaking about whether or not she kissed  _me_  goodnight.” He turns on the bench, watching you to tear into him, to yell and curse and scream and claw, but he’s waiting for something that’ll never come.

“I don’t hate her,” he finally mumbles.

“You could have fooled her.”

The silence settles onto your shoulders and the sun fades, crickets interrupting your thoughts and after he doesn’t speak for a while, you start to stand, ready to let this go; to let _her_  go.

“Am I a horrible person?” he asks right as you steady your hands, palms flat against the wood slab to push yourself up. “Because I said those things?”

You think about it. “No,” you finally decide. “But you’re a horrible son.” He waits for more and you settle back again. “You were confused and angry and surprised and yeah, I get that,” you start slowly. “But as her  _son_ , you owed it to her – after  _everything_ she’s done for you – you owed it to her to listen to what she had to say, to try and understand what it was she was telling you.”

“As her son, you owed it to her to love her for who she was, because she was your mother.” You let out a heavy exhale, but the weight on your chest doesn’t feel any lighter now that you’ve said that. It doesn’t feel any lighter and he still looks lost and lonely.

“She changed,” he argues weakly.

“So did you.”

He pauses, then changes tactics as you’re rising to stand, intent on leaving this time. “You let her go once; you’ll be fine doing it again.”

A part of you wonders how she ever dealt with this rollercoaster of emotions her son has; how she ever took him seriously and stayed patient with him, because you would have already knocked him across the jaw by now.

But you shrug. “Maybe I will. But I’ll love her for a very long time and that’s not something you can control, or fix, or demand me to stop.  And maybe she’ll find another Frank to settle down with and she’ll get her fairytale,” you offer, a piece of your heart breaking as you say the very words. “I’ll let her go again too, because I want her to be happy.”

“Frank made her happy,” he says, more to himself than out loud.

You shake your head. “No, he didn’t. But if he makes  _you_  happy, then she’ll make herself be happy. If you’re happy Rafe, she’ll try to be happy.” You shrug again. “I’ll let her go because it makes  _you_  happy.”

“Olivia…”

“Don’t you know that’s all she’s ever wanted?” He doesn’t nod or shake his head or even move. “She’s only ever wanted you to be with her and to be happy.”

You shrug again, feeling the motion strain your muscles. “I want her to be happy. And if letting her go is what it takes,” you trail off, the admission catching in your throat. “When you’re older, when you have more people than  _yourself_  to consider in your life, you’ll understand what it means to let something go that means the world to you.”

The walk to the car is long and narrow, a reminder of the scar trailing down your body; a reminder of Gus and her and the chances you’ve been given and the chances you’ve lost. You stop at your door before slipping the key into the lock, just to turn once and look back at the house you called home for a couple of months; to turn and look back and say goodbye to the life you made. He’s still sitting on the bench, his brows furrowed and his hands twisting together.

He doesn’t look like he belongs there, on the bench.

He doesn’t look like he belongs there, at this house.

He doesn’t look like he belongs there, in her life.

Your feet move on their own accord, pulling you to a halting stop in front of him. “Rafe, just take care of her. Just love her, alright?”

You don’t give him the chance to answer, but as you’re opening the car door, you hear him whimper and in your rearview mirror, as your car travels the same path down the driveway that she did when she took off, you think you see him hunched forward.

He might be crying.

You get all the way to the Beacon before you realize that the moisture on your cheeks isn’t sweat.


End file.
